


You Thrill Me (Half Killed Me)

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Jealous Illya, M/M, Napoleon is a Tease, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:17:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a trying day, it makes everything so much better to hear Illya’s voice, even more now that he couldn’t see him. And Napoleon is in too good of a mood to let Illya ruin it.</p><p>---</p><p>The one where they are on separate missions and Napoleon calls Illya to check on him. What happens after has very little plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Thrill Me (Half Killed Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaijusizefeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/gifts).



> There is nothing in this but smut and I have no excuse for this. Sorry :P

The phone starts ringing as soon as Illya steps into his hotel bedroom and instantly he knows who is calling. Still rubbing his hair dry with a small towel after his quick shower, he marvels at Napoleon’s impeccable timing. He always times his calls perfectly when they are away on separate missions as if he’s watching Illya through a telescope, always knowing, always anticipating what the Russian would be doing. Sitting at the edge of his hotel bed, Illya takes his time to pick up the phone, not wanting to seem too eager, finally lifts it off the receiver after a few torturous seconds before pressing it to his ear. 

“Hello?” he says, smiles when he hears that familiar voice at the other end.

“Peril, I hope you’re alone in that hotel room.”

Rolling his eyes as if Napoleon could see him, Illya pinches a lock of hair between his fingers, squeezing water out as he listens to Napoleon’s whining.

“Did you call just to check on me, Cowboy?”

After a trying day, it makes everything so much better to hear Illya’s voice, even more now that he couldn’t see him. And Napoleon is in too good of a mood to let Illya ruin it. So he simply laughs, then grins when he hears Illya repeating his question.

“I’m calling because I wanted to make sure you’re fine, partner mine. No other reason other than that.”

“You do not fool me, Cowboy, but don’t worry. I am not you. So there is no need to worry about it happening.”

There is a faint huff and Illya could picture Napoleon pouting at the remark he’d made.

“I am hurt that you think so little of me. For your information, I’m all alone right now as well. No one here with me to entertain my needs.” 

Illya scoffs. “Well, you know what I would do if that happens. Because no one else should be entertaining your needs but me.”

Napoleon hums and Illya suddenly is picturing him, spread out on those luxurious sheets he is always demanding. Perhaps he is on his stomach, fingers tracing abstract designs on the bed as he spoke. He’d seen Napoleon in that pose before and there’s something comforting about picturing it now.

“How did mission go with Waverly?” Illya suddenly asks, trying to change the subject. He tosses the small towel in his hand onto the bed.

“Oh, it went smoothly indeed. Mission accomplished,” Napoleon answers, then Illya could practically hear the purr in the American’s voice. “Although, I have to say, Alexander makes an excellent lover.”

Illya makes a funny noise in his throat upon hearing that, regretting his question in an instant.

Napoleon’s mission had been to uncover a syndicate involving a brothel in Rio, implicated with missing persons and human sex trafficking, and when Waverly had informed them he would be directly involved as well, it had left Illya worried.

“Brothels in Brazil, and this particular one in Rio, are now competing with nightclubs and hotel bars for the attention of rich, young society types. Selling sex is, evidently, a plus feature. And we have been engaged by both the CIA and FBI to help in this high profile case.”

Illya had not been impressed when Waverly had explained further that the network responsible for the victims were not only targeting women and children, they were aiming men as well, although not exclusively. The victims, mainly the women, were recruited into the network by traffickers posing as boyfriends who feign romance and affection. And to crack into the syndicate, Waverly would have to pose as an interested rich individual, in order to connect with the traffickers who ran the operations. A few UNCLE agents were handed roles to be Waverly’s prized ‘acquisitions’ and Napoleon as his young business partner cum lover.

Illya had protested Napoleon’s role, had demanded to be let into the mission as well, but he had already been assigned to a separate assignment with Gaby in Frankfurt, much to his frustration. Knowing he’d have to be away from Napoleon, with no eyes to keep watch on his lover, had left Illya reeling. And agitated.

“I do not understand. FBI and CIA have capable agents. Why do they need UNCLE for this?” he had argued.

“Because UNCLE is fairly new and we are probably still anonymous within the intelligence community. Less likely that our covers would be blown,” Waverly had answered but it had failed to calm Illya’s nerves. He remembers the state of their thrashed office after Napoleon had left for the mission. It had been an ugly sight indeed.

“Hey, Peril, you still with me? I know it’s late over there, but you can’t fall asleep on me.”

Napoleon’s voice pulls him back to the present. He checks on the time, his watch showing two in the morning. What he should do is end the conversation and sleep, but that is the last thing on his mind, not with the swirling thoughts in his head at the moment.

“Did anyone touch you? Did Waverly touch you?” Illya suddenly asks in a fierce tone and Napoleon sighs. 

“You are being irrational. You know how these things work.”

“It does not mean I have to like it.”

“No, you don’t. And I assure you, you have nothing to worry about.”

He could almost hear the sound of Illya’s brain working overtime with his attempt to placate him. “Illya? You can’t be mad at me.”

A few seconds of silence is followed by a question that is so typical of the Russian.

“Hmm, should I be jealous?”

“You can’t be serious if you’re jealous of Waverly,” Napoleon cannot help but tease and the smirk from Napoleon is audible across the phone, just as clear as the laughing tone in his voice.

“Napoleon,” Illya warns, groaning softly.

“I think that’s a strong yes.”

“Shut up.”

Illya attempts to prevent the upcoming conversation but knows he’s too late. Once Napoleon has something to tease him with it is nearly impossible to get him to stop. But Napoleon is right. Even if he is trying to tamp it down, he is insanely jealous.

“You do know Waverly is our boss? And it’s all merely an act? Although I have to say he’s a perfect gentleman, the epitome of British charm. No wonder he’d turned heads at this particular social gathering we’d attended.”

“What are you doing, Solo?” Illya growls and Napoleon dissolves into peals of laughter, clearly finding this the peak of humour. 

“Lighten up, Peril. Isn’t it obvious I’m trying to make you jealous?”

“If you want to live, you better know when to stop,” Illya says, grinning a little, despite his growing annoyance. 

“But, seriously, I think Waverly’s a handsome man. I bet the girls threw themselves at his feet when he’s younger. Maybe a few men as well.”

“You have ruined it, Cowboy. I am never going to think about sex again.”

Napoleon laughs at Illya’s exaggerated comments. “Hmm, I highly doubt that.”

“No, really. I’m scarred for life. All I see is Waverly coming after you. And that is a terrible thought.”

“So, you’re not able to think about sex anymore? Even if I told you that I’m lying spread out naked, on the bed, you still wouldn’t be interested?”

“ _Nyet.”_

Illya, being stubborn, is completely lying, of course. All thoughts of Alexander Waverly and Napoleon leave his head as soon as Napoleon starts talking like _that_ , in that tone of voice. If Napoleon is going to tease him, though, he isn’t about to make it easy for him. He’s going to stand his ground. 

“I told you, I’m scarred for life. You ruined it. Maybe no sex for you in the near future, Cowboy. Especially after what you’d put in my head.”

“My poor baby.” 

Napoleon makes a soft, sarcastic whimpering noise, almost sympathetic, and Illya is struck with the urge to throw something at him. “Too bad, Peril, because I’m running my hand down my chest, tracing every muscle. Wishing it was your tongue.”

Illya almost chokes, but he pulls himself together.

“Your talk. Is doing nothing to me.”

Unbidden, the image of Napoleon on the bed, fingers sliding over his chest, back arching and moist lips parted, flood Illya’s mind and it takes all of his considerable willpower to hold back his moan. He had missed Napoleon more than he realised, clearly. It had been two weeks since they last saw each other. And a few phone calls between them had not been enough. In fact, it’s never going to be enough. Not until he has Napoleon in his grasp again. And all Napoleon has to do is talk like that and Illya’s mind starts to supply him with the most vivid pornographic images, Napoleon in all states of dress and undress, writhing, begging for him. Illya bites his lips to suppress a moan.

“So, Peril,” Napoleon lets out a breathy little moan of his own, one that travels down Illya’s spine straight to his crotch. “Still scarred?”

“Maybe, yes. Something like this,” Illya murmurs as he bites his lips harder, a mischievous expression now on his face, knows he is already losing the game. He wants to hear Napoleon talk further, wants Napoleon to try and please him. It is far too hot to pass the idea up. “I am deeply wounded, Cowboy.”

“Deeply?” Napoleon asks, amused, but not oblivious to what Illya’s trying to do. “So it doesn’t matter that I’m rubbing the curve of my hip, fingertips just inches away from my cock and that I’m hard for you?” 

A little gasp comes through the phone line, followed by a soft moan. 

“Napoleon,” Illya grumbles, twisting slightly as his own cock rises, tenting the towel he has wrapped around his waist. He wants to see Napoleon and his flushed cheeks and his eyes, that heavy-lidded look that always make Illya’s jaw drop and his breath hitch. Napoleon has to be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen, much less slept with, and the way he looks when he is in need is something that never fails to short-circuit Illya’s brain. He grips the phone hard, knuckles almost turning white.

“Still thinking about Waverly?”

“Who’s Waverly?” Illya mutters, toying with the towel in his hand.

“That’s right, Peril,” Napoleon breathes, “I want your attention all on me.”

“Oh? And I am thinking you’re the one trying to make me jealous.”

Napoleon only hums. There is a soft rustling noise, and Napoleon sighs, a breathy, teasing little sound. “I want you all to myself.”

“Mmm, sounds good enough,” Illya answers, rubbing himself through the towel. “You have my full attention, _tovarisch_. What do you want me to do to you?” 

He wants Napoleon to go on, to listen to his voice describing his wicked deeds and his explicit fantasies. This between them is an indulgence indeed.

“I want you to get me all alone,” Napoleon trails off, voice husky, and Illya knows that he is thinking, crafting a situation. Napoleon could be enormously inventive. “In our little office, back in London. Everyone else has gone home. Even Waverly,” Napoleon says with a laugh but it’s breathy, nothing like the full-bodied sound from before.

“Good. I don’t want him listening to us,” Illya growls as he slides his hand under the towel, resting it on his thigh, holding back from touching himself, waiting for Napoleon to say more before he gives in.

“Well, I don’t want anyone listening to us either,” Napoleon continues. “And then…”

“And then what?” Illya asks, impatience taking over him.

“I wait until I’m sure it’s just us in the building. Once we’re truly alone, I start to undress. I’ve only got my shoes off but you start pouncing on me like the Russian brute you are. So damn impatient.”

“You have thought about this before,” Illya interrupts, smiles at the scene Napoleon is depicting.

“Maybe a little,” Napoleon replies, and Illya could sense the coy grin lighting up his handsome face. “And so you know, before I could do anything,” Napoleon continues, “You hook your thumb into the belt-loop of my pants and pull me close, right up against you, and kiss me hard.”

“Mmm,” is all Illya could utter in response, even though he knows that in real life Napoleon would scowl at him for possibly hurting his pants like that. The fantasy is perfect though and a shiver runs through his spine.

“You slide your hand down, grabbing my ass, pressing against me tightly…” 

Napoleon’s breath hitches slightly at his own words and as much as Illya likes the fantasy, he wants to know what Napoleon’s doing right at that moment, wants to know what had caused that little gasp. “Then you shove me against the wall.”

“And what are you doing?” Now or in his fantasy, it doesn’t matter to Illya. He just wants an image of Napoleon because he is far more interested in Napoleon than himself. He smooths his hand over his stomach, tossing the towel away, trying to picture Napoleon spread out on the bed. His mind is helpful enough to supply him with an image.

“I’m rubbing against you, of course. Gasping. Letting you have your way with me, and I can’t do anything but grab your hips and hang on and you rip my shirt off and toss it away, flinging it back behind you.”

The whining, begging note in Napoleon’s voice makes Illya moan, suddenly seeing the scene Napoleon is describing, crystal-clear, complete with phantom pressure from the thighs of the imaginary Napoleon.

“You liked that shirt, Cowboy. You must be unhappy with me for doing that.”

“Mmm, yes, but I like your hands on my bared chest more. You manhandling me. Your thumbs on my nipple, scratching your nails down my chest…all over.”

At that, Illya has his hand wrapped around his own cock, now a loose grip, stroking slowly, just enough to give him an edge. “Am I teasing you?” he manages a question, his accent thick and raw, and Napoleon moans.

“Fuck, yes.” 

Drawing the last word into a hiss, Napoleon arches on the bed he is on. “You’re a fucking tease, Illya, you’ve no idea. Your fingers, up and down my stomach, and I'm just begging…needing you…”

“What do you want me to do to you, Solo?” Illya asks, voice a low, hungry rumble. He knows what that will do to Napoleon, even through the phone. “Tell me. What are you begging me for?”

“I want you to fuck me. _Please_. Against the wall, hard, make me scream…I need you so much.”

Napoleon’s voice is high and breathy, peppered with little moans, soft sighs, the sounds of pleasure that Illya treasures. “Please, Illya, fuck me.”

“Mm, yes,” Illya hisses triumphantly, stroking his cock with long, fast strokes, hand lotion which is at his side, easing the slide. He doesn’t think he would ever grow tired of hearing Napoleon beg for him. “I’ve been waiting to hear this all day, Napoleon. Hearing you beg for me. You sound so…” 

He stops what he wants to say, licks his lower lip as he shuts his eyes, picturing Napoleon against the wall in their office, arching into his hands, head thrown back, golden skin glowing with sweat and want. That image sets Illya off, and he is unable to help himself, mouths what he wants to do to Napoleon.

“I push you against that wall, Cowboy, and your pants, it needs to go, yes?”

“Damn it, Illya.”

Napoleon sounds desperate now, just the way Illya wants him.  

“My hands now on your naked thighs, pressing them apart. I push you up, hook your legs over my hips, and then I start to fuck you, Cowboy.I start to fuck you. _Hard_.” 

Illya finishes his sentence with a groan, tightening his grip, mind a jumble of images, Napoleon against the wall combined with Napoleon on that bed, currently writhing and wanton, tight around his cock. He thrust his straining erection into his fist, trying to approximate the feeling. “I am fucking you right through that wall, Cowboy. Can you feel me, _моя любовь_?”

“Yes.”

A deep groan cuts through the phone line, followed by soft whimpering and something that is too fast for Illya to catch. Whatever Napoleon had said, the tone of his needy voice goes straight to his cock and he is struck with the urge to see Napoleon and what he is doing to himself, because to hell with fantasy. He wants his man right now, in this moment. 

“Cowboy, please, tell me what you’re doing to yourself. Right now, tell me. Need to know.”

“Fuck.” 

Napoleon’s breathy voice comes through the phone line as if breathing is too much of a distraction from his actions. “I’ve got my hand wrapped around my cock, and I’m pulling it, stroking it like you do…”

A moan stops Napoleon’s speech for a moment, high and needy and traveling down Illya’s spine with lightning speed, “got two fingers in me, stretching and teasing…”

Illya moans as the picture springs to his mind, Napoleon writhing flushed-cheeked on the bed, arching his hips upward and hand working furiously. Illya wants desperately to touch him, to be the one to make him fly apart and to be the cause of those beautiful blue eyes going unfocused with pleasure. 

“God, Napoleon…”

“Illya, I’m close.”

The tone in Napoleon’s voice drives Illya closer himself, his cock giving a visible twitch as he strokes himself harder. “Yes,” he growls, almost believing that he is jerking into Napoleon’s hand. 

“Want to hear you come for me, Cowboy.”

_“Ah!"_

A sharp gasp fills the phone line. “Oh God, Illya, _nhh_!" 

A little groan and Illya knows Napoleon’s coming, the knowledge sending him over the edge as well, pumping his fist furiously as he envisions Napoleon at that moment. A few minutes later, all Illya could hear is Napoleon’s breathy sighs and then a soft, sleepy voice cut into Illya’s pleasant daze.

“God, Peril, that was something else.”

“Da,” Illya smiles, his boneless body relaxing against the sheets of his hotel bed.

“I’ve missed you.”

Napoleon’s voice is lush and sated, a chuckle lurking behind his words, but his admission had made Illya’s chest swell with something inside of him, mere words could not explain it.

“We’ll see each other soon,” Illya promises, wiping himself off with his discarded towel. And he simply can’t wait when that time arrives. 

 

***

 

A few days after that insatiable night, the time Illya has been waiting for has finally arrived. And he has planned everything to perfection. When he sees Napoleon that night, there is really only one thing on his mind that he wants to do to him. Because Napoleon ought to be punished for what he had done; getting him all hot and bothered, without the real satisfaction he had wanted.

So what better way to compensate (and to teach Napoleon a good lesson for that night) with some real love making with that damn infuriating lover of his? Illya wants to prove Napoleon wrong, that he is no brute, that he can take his time with him. He has planned for them to start off their night with a couple of drinks, cuddling and holding each other on the sofa while listening to some soft music (Gaby had suggested some jazz she figures Napoleon would love), before really moving on to the main event; the love making. He’s seen it all in his head. And Illya cannot wait.

When he finally hears his doorbell ring, he leaps to open the door. He yanks it open but when he sees Napoleon standing at his doorstep with those eyes, those bleeding gorgeous blue eyes, Illya loses control instantly. Fuck with all the plans he had in mind! He pulls him in roughly and they stumble into the bedroom, clothes and everything off in a matter of seconds, flung all over the bedroom floor and when Napoleon starts to pull him towards the bed, Illya stops him.

“Peril?”

“No. Not tonight. Tonight, I want you somewhere else.”

He leads Napoleon to his dimly lit bathroom and when they step inside, Napoleon sees he’s placed scented candles along the sides of the tub. Napoleon knows what Illya has in mind and raises an eyebrow at the sexy Russian.

“Hmm, candles?”

Illya shrugs with a slight hint of pink tinting his cheeks. “Gaby. It was her idea.”

Napoleon then gives Illya his famous lopsided smile. “And a bath?”

“No, not bath,” Illya corrects him as he gets into the tub, pulling Napoleon along with him as to stop him from asking more unnecessary questions, the water spilling over to the floor once they tumble together inside with Napoleon falling on top of the Russian. And before he could say anything, Illya gives him a passionate kiss, mutters, “Shut up. It’s sex. Sex in a tub. That’s what I call this. Okay, Cowboy?”

“Well, you always get what you want, don’t you, Peril?” Napoleon grumbles against Illya’s lips but secretly, he’s terribly turned on.

 

***

 

“Illya…” Napoleon moans as Illya bites on his shoulder and pants breathlessly against his neck. They’ve been rubbing and grinding against each other and now, with Napoleon’s back against his chest, Illya intends to show Napoleon what he’s been missing.

"Do you know how much I’ve missed you? For days I couldn’t touch you and you made me come in my hands, alone on that bed without you,” Illya whispers against his lover’s jaw with his arm holding Napoleon’s body firmly against his. His other hand has wandered dangerously low and when he grazes his fingers just below Napoleon’s navel, tracing the fine line of hair there, he hears him gasp his name but it is muttered so low, it comes out only as a breathy plea.

“Illya, you’re torturing me.”

“You deserve it,” he says and then with one swift motion, he grips Napoleon’s strong thighs apart and the water around them ripples, creating a delicious friction between their bodies.

“So this is my punishment for what I’d done the other day?”

“You should be so lucky, Cowboy. It could be worse.”

Despite everything, Napoleon still has the nerve to tease. And this irks the Russian. He really wants to prolong Napoleon’s agony, but thinking twice, maybe he should just move the game along because he himself does not think he could stand the temptation, of wanting to touch his lover any longer.

“Can I touch you?” he says, bites Napoleon’s earlobe at the same time.

“Don’t think you need a gold embossed invitation for that,” Napoleon complains, then moans.

He merely shudders at the slight contact Illya makes and tilts his head back against Illya’s shoulders. The words he’s whispering in his ear are like a dangerous drug to his system and Napoleon wonders if he could keep up because he’s finding it extremely hard to breathe. He arches his neck further and his exposed, glistening wet naked skin is such a welcome sight for Illya that he couldn’t help but roam his lips and mouth all over the tender area. He brands it with tiny bites, licks, and kisses, making and claiming Napoleon his own. At the same time, his fingers which have been hovering around Napoleon’s weeping cock bypass it completely and soon start to graze gently along his inner thighs. Illya moves it agonisingly closer towards where Napoleon really wants it to be but he waits patiently just like a true hunter tormenting its prey. He wants to hear Napoleon beg and plead for what he wants the most.

His strong arm around Napoleon’s shoulder holds his writhing body firmly, his teeth scraping the nape of the American’s neck and then he bites down again before smoothing his tongue on the reddened area. Their legs tangle inside the impossibly small bathtub and at Illya’s maddening licks and touches around his erogenous zones, Napoleon surrenders and involuntarily spreads his thighs farther apart and thrust his hips up, hoping his obvious erection can find some kind of relief but Illya keeps holding back until Napoleon could take it no longer.

“Illya, for fuck’s sake, touch me!” he begs and thrust up once again but just like before, it comes to nothing.

 _“You,”_ Illya moans in his ear, “look so fucking sexy when you thrust up like that. Do it again, Cowboy, do it again for me.”

Helpless, Napoleon simply obeys Illya’s command and thrust up but he’s disappointed yet again and whimpers for mercy. “Please, Illya…”

“Tell me what you want…tell me what you want when you do that.”

“ _Nhh_ …I want you to touch me,” Napoleon begs, and as soon as he’s said it, Illya’s fist closes around his length, loosely gripping it, but enough to bring Napoleon into a frenzy. He cries out and arches, hoping Illya will do something to ease his distress, but the Russian merely teases his leaking cock, merely lets it twitch in his hand. Napoleon is fast losing control so he begs again, whimpers in Illya’s hold. When Illya figures Napoleon has been tortured enough, his hand starts to move against Napoleon’s length and his partner shudders at the touch before arching up again, and again, to meet the delicious stroking around his member. With Illya’s hot breath against the curve of his neck, Napoleon cries out when his strokes gather pace. The water becomes a brilliant solution for them, making the friction easy and smooth as Illya glides his fist up and down his solid erection. Napoleon grips the side of the tub hard with one hand (knocks a few of the candles off the side and into the water in the process), knuckles turning white and the other stretches tautly to grip at Illya’s neck as he moans when his partner scrapes the sensitive head with his finger.

“Fuck, Illya!” he groans and then cruelly, Illya stops just as he’s about to come, his fingers gripping him hard to prevent his release.

“No, no, why…why are…ahh!…you stopping?”

A tongue flicks in Napoleon’s ear and then Illya whispers hotly, “I want to kiss you. Let me kiss your lips first.”

Despite the maddening way Illya is holding his release, Napoleon relents and obeys him yet again. He twists his head and Illya catches his parted lips with his and frantically kisses him with all his being. Their tongues tangled and danced with one another, caressing and probing and then the expert fingers around Napoleon’s length starts to move, as frantic as the kiss Illya is giving his lover and soon Napoleon arches up like a bow as Illya milks him completely.

But he does not let Napoleon rest. His orgasm has barely subsided when Napoleon feels Illya’s hard length entering him. He isn’t prepared of course, no matter how many times they’ve done it and he cries at the pain as he is being stretched but soon enough it turns into pure pleasure and Napoleon finds himself grinding back against his lover. The water ripples as the movement from their writhing bodies cause it to hit the bathtub walls around them. Illya’s mouth hot on Napoleon’s neck moves towards his shoulder, his large hands pawing on his hips, gripping him hard, and Napoleon is sure there will be bruises there tomorrow but he does not care. It is the best kind of pain and he needs something to remember from their delicious love making, and when he looks at those marks tomorrow, he knows he can only see Illya.

“Fuck…Illya!” Napoleon cries as he’s manhandled, Illya’s vigorous fucking sending him to oblivion. He’s wrecked and he’s keening and he is unable to do anything other than take it, lets himself fall limp against Illya’s chest except for his hand which starts stroking his cock eagerly.

And as Illya continues to thrust, the intense feeling causes Napoleon to come for the second time that night and soon, Illya joins him as he shudders violently behind him as he empties himself inside the man he loves.

 

***

 

“I love having you on top of me like that, with your back leaning against me,” Illya murmurs in Napoleon’s ear as they lie on the bed later, arms holding one another.

“And why’s that?” Napoleon asks, mischief in his eyes. He runs his fingers through Illya’s damp hair and sees him smile through satisfied lips. “Peril? Any particular reason?”

Illya does not answer but only silences Napoleon with a kiss. It’s not furious and frantic but soft and tender and Napoleon sighs against his lips when they finally part.

“Well if you’re not going to tell me, I don’t mind it one bit, but do you think I could get another kiss?” 

“Of course,” and Illya moves in quickly, kisses him once again until he is breathless.

He feels like his heart might just explode with love for this man and when he looks at him like that, Illya feels like he has to have him all over again because Napoleon is his and nothing can stop him from taking Napoleon, whenever and however he wants. A naughty thought then creeps into his head.

“Cowboy?” he says slowly as his lips wander down to nibble at Napoleon’s chin.

“Yes?”

“Do you love me?”

Napoleon wriggles away from Illya’s grasp, raises his head and narrows his eyes suspiciously at the Russian. “Have you gone soft?”

Napoleon is right, of course. He’s gone terribly soft when it comes to the American. A year back, he’d rather be dead than ever admit to something as atrocious as that. But now, things have changed tremendously. Now, his world just revolves around Napoleon and if anyone perceives that to be his weakness, then he readily accepts it.

He sighs as he cups Napoleon’s face.

“Does it matter? Why is it difficult for you to answer it?”

“Not difficult, am just wondering why you’d even ask me that when you know the answer.”

“Because if you do, I want to fuck you again.”

Napoleon shivers at that but tries to remain unaffected by it. But Illya’s eyes on him are dangerous, far too dangerous to ignore, in the end, he has to relent and mutters, “You’re insatiable.”

“Are you complaining?” Illya asks. When Napoleon remains silent, he leans in and bites the tender skin just underneath his ear. “Please?” he whispers and Napoleon smiles.

“Since you asked me very nicely, I can’t say no to that. Where do you want me this time?” he winks and his words are enough to send delicious tingles straight to Illya’s groin once more.

“I’ll take you right here,” Illya murmurs, and in a quick swift motion, he’s lying on top of Napoleon who’s gasping in a matter of seconds when his hands start roaming south of Napoleon’s body.

“But this time you will come untouched. Understand? Or you will not come at all.”

And Napoleon can only gulp to that. Because what Illya wants, Illya surely gets. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. So for my last few fics, I've done angst, fluff, and this one, smut. I hope you liked them all, and apologies for that attempt at phone sexy talk :o  
> 2\. My Russian translator is Mr. Google. Please forgive me for any mistakes.  
> моя любовь - my love


End file.
